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2.
Thy brethren battle with the foe,
Thy Sire's red strokes around him sweep,
Whilst thou, his bonny babe, art smiling through thy sleep. All Gwalia shudders at the Norman blow! What are the angels whispering low
Of thy father now ? Bright babe, asleep upon my knee, How many a Queen of high degree Would cast away her crown to slumber thus like thee ! |
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2.
Mae gennyt frodyr yn y gad,
Mae'th dad a'i gleddyf wrth ei glunt
A thithau'n cysgu'n drwm, gan wenu trwy dy hurt* Mae tnvst y Norman yn crynxCr wlad, Beth uyr yr engyl am dy dad ? O ! am orpJiicyso'n ddedwydd inch, Mae breninesau ucJiel dch, A roent eu gorsedd fainc am givsg Vwysoges fach. |
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H. 4868. |
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